Memento Nora by Angie Smibert Page B

surprised.
     
    “What about your dad?” I asked.
     
    He hesitated and then said, “I don’t really remember my dad.” I could feel him wanting to wriggle free from my hand. “I know I should. I was like five or six when he left. Mom won’t talk about it, but she swears she didn’t pill me into forgetting.”
     
    “Do you believe her?” I asked him. I asked myself, Could she have secretly pilled him? She’s a nurse. They might have the TFC pill where she works. She could have slipped it into his oatmeal. Maybe. But then I thought, no . If she could do that, she wouldn’t have bothered to take him to TFC at all. Besides, like the TFC doctor explained, the pill alone wasn’t enough to make you forget. You had to talk about the specific memory.
     
    Micah shrugged. “But even if she didn’t, I don’t want to forget anything else.”
     
    Micah slid down the jungle gym to the ground. He gave me his good hand to guide me. The cast on his bum arm was beginning to look pretty tattered. He’d covered up the Memento with a big snake, just like Mr. Yamada had on his arm.
     
    “We should do the next issue on your story,” I said as I slid to the ground in front of him, my hand still in his. My momentum carried me right into him, face-to-face. My breath caught as I inhaled him; and before I realized what I was doing (or maybe I did), I leaned in ever so slightly and brushed his lips with mine. He tasted of bread and rosemary. We lingered there a moment—until we heard someone clear her throat.
     
    “Young man—and young lady—you’d better get your butts back to school.” We turned to see Mrs. Brooks, her arms folded. She stood there until we started moving. But as we headed toward the gate, I swore I heard a low, warm chuckle behind us.
     

     
    “What were you saying?” Micah asked as we wound our way back through the maze of junk to the outer gate.
     
    I had to think for a second. “Your story,” I said. “We should do it next.”
     
    “We can’t mention the Village,” he said, a little panicky. “We’re technically not squatting, but we can’t get Mr. Shaw in trouble with the city. He’s not really supposed to have so many people here.”
     
    “No, I was thinking more about the not-remembering-your-father part,” I said. “It makes your story make sense—just like my mom’s memory made mine make sense.”
     
    “You’re pretty smart for a prep,” he teased, his hand resting on my hip.
     
    We were crossing the pedestrian bridge again. I stopped to read the plaque. The bridge was dedicated to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as a symbolic (and actual) bridge between neighborhoods. Micah put his arm loosely around me as I read. I think he was about to kiss my cheek when the school bell rang. I pulled away. I’m not sure why. It was like the real world was calling.
     
    “Library. Usual time,” I said over my shoulder as I walked back toward school. I left him standing there.
     
    I tried not to think about his arm around me. Or his lips against mine. Instead I thought about his story. I could see it in my head how I wanted to do it. I started writing it out in English class when I should’ve been taking notes on the history of the Globe Theater. We’d start where we left off, with Micah getting hit by the black van, spitting out the pill at TFC, and then telling me—or my character—later about his father. And vowing never to forget anything ever again.
     

     
    He was late. I was sitting in his usual place—back to the art stacks, a pile of books in front of me—as I scribbled away. He didn’t say much as he slid into my usual seat. I didn’t look up. I just kept writing. Micah shifted in his seat, and I could feel his uneasiness next to me. He reached for his bag and started to leave.
     
    “Where do you think you’re going?” I asked as I pushed the pad of paper in front of him.
     
    A big smile spread across his lips, and he plunked himself back into the seat. I’d used